Main navigation

Life Happens

Travel, why do we do it, to see other sights, broaden our minds, and learn new ways of being, or for the fun and novelty? Ever since my son John returned from a trip to Uganda last summer, he has been asking me to go back with him. I didn’t understand until I got there, he had been joking. He never expected me to take him up on his request. The joke turned out to be on him.

When he first told me of his plans to visit Uganda I asked an incredulous why? For a man content most times to let a few well-chosen words suffice as an answer, he only shrugged a reply. I, more loquacious by a factor of ten, found myself also bereft of words when the same question was put to me a year later. A mysterious primal urge defied explanation while drawing my interest.

Two previous trips to Africa, was as different from this latest as Zwieback is to banana bread. They set a stage for extraordinary contrasts. When we considered visiting this intriguing continent we chose a tour. It was the antithesis to Hubs and my usual wandering around in foreign parts. But seemed the safest way to avert a disaster.

I met lots of chambermaids, guides, bartenders and support staff on that trip. I never once left a compound or strayed out into a street without a cadre of minders. Everyone was jovial, charming and likable. The same qualities, undoubtedly that got them their jobs rather than exemplifying the citizenry of a country.

With no agenda or tour-guide nipping at my heels, I looked forward to seeing the sights. I found myself both exhilarated and terrified. That is until Church greeted us at the airport. A younger sister bestowed the moniker finding her sibling’s name a challenge. Church Fridaus, a friend John, made on his last stay appointed herself our guide. She also acted as a representative of the Ugandan chamber of commerce. According to our wig-bedecked docent, (to give herself more cred) for a white person to be in Kampala unaided by an African amounted to a suicide mission. John and I impressed upon her that she should lose the wig straight away before we set about to disprove her suicide theory.

Since my view of the city appeared to be a labyrinth of clogged streets and menacing motorcyclists, I couldn’t argue. My princess-and-the-pea sensibilities recoiled when I first laid eyes on my Ugandan lodgings. Used as I was to several more stars in the ratings and loft in the mattresses. Kampala met all the criteria for an exotic city. My interpretation of the word runs more to romance, delicious foods, and extraordinary sights. The traffic alone negated any romance Jambs are a way of life. On time, is a western concept. Clouts of frustrated tourist stand looking at their watches. Meanwhile Africans and expats arrive without apology when they do.

Mass transit does not exist. By default the job comes in the form of thousands of motorcycle taxis. They swarm like hornets through and around traffic. Boda-bodas, as the taxis are called, are the only way to get from point A to point B on time. Safety, however, is an issue when using this form of transportation. They drive on either side of the road, on sidewalks, weave in and around traffic and never stop at a light. Boda-bodas were off limits to us white folk. Though our keeper hopped aboard one, if Kenny the driver was missing in action.

As we sat in the interminable traffic, a constant reframe of careful emanated from our over-cautious-hostess. I don’t know if Church has a larcenous soul or a vivid imagination. She saw cell phones plucked from unsuspecting hands, while on a boda-bodas, standing at street corners, or sitting in a car in a traffic snarl. Despite all the dire warnings, we brandished our phones about filming the cityscape. Neither of us lost our cells even while filming aboard the dreaded boda-bodas.

After two days of no so great western style restaurants, I suggested we try an African one. Had that first meal been my sole foray into African cuisine I would have delighted in the subtle tastes and flavors. As meals turned out, I experienced a preponderance of African food in my seventeen-day stay. The problem, whether for lunch or dinner was the monotony. The only variance in the menu was the choice between goat or chicken with steamed bananas, white rice, plantains, beans, Irish (white potatoes), vegetable gravy and fruit for dessert.

The fruit could not have been more delicious, especially the pineapple. It became my go to breakfast. I never thought of myself as a picky eater (as a friend once said “we’ll eat anything look at us!”). That is until I bit into a commercially grown hard-boiled Ugandan chicken egg. I had a strange sensation of what’s-wrong-here when I took a bite and noticed nothing but white. Wondering how an egg could be yolkless, I inspected further to find the yolk to be the same hue as the white. Odd as it was, I hardly suspected the color would affect the taste. As I started in on my second bite of egg, I began to gag. A person at the table across from me had that moment noshed into a similarly cooked egg with a gray yolk.

Church and her husband Geoffrey work in the slums. They keep tabs on several woman and their children. Many men in Uganda marry, produce children, move on to another wife and make more children. Since most lack jobs, few support the women and children they left. The Kampala slums have a disproportionate amount of single mothers in residence because of this. When I was invited to visit the slums with Geoffrey and Church, I wanted to find a reason, and I assure you any would do, not to go.

I couldn’t fathom being in the squalor an African slum conjured up. Seeing children no more than four-year-olds begging in the streets with their month’s-old siblings strapped to their backs was mind-boggling enough. Having been a single mother the stories of the families the two shepherded were especially heart breaking. It didn’t allay my dread that I needed to have a police escort equipped with AK-47s.

Every square inch of the place assaulted my senses. Mud huts crammed into each other among more filth than I could ever have imagined. I went into several homes and met countless children. I came away awed by the kindness and joie de vivre exuding from so unlikely a place. There is more discontent on street corners in the United States than I saw in that slum. I’m glad I couldn’t find an excuse not to go.

A few days later we went to the Kampala Home for the Handicapped. Church whispered to me as we approached the grounds that even she couldn’t work here. I shuttered then steeled myself for a magnitude of horror and sad circumstances. If this angel of misery couldn’t handle what was in store how was I?

I had no idea how many afflictions disabled encompassed. Nor did I know that some of the afflictions I saw there existed. In a few minutes the scales fell from my eyes and as I looked past the handicap at the unmistakable joy for life the children possessed. Someone asked a volunteer how she kept from being depressed. She responded, “How could I get depressed?” The attitude of gratitude that permeated the school was palpable.

Though my body might have wished for a more varied menu while I was there, I left Africa with my soul fed.

Last winter I read a fascinating book by Sir David R. Hawkins, M.D., and Ph.D. The book Power vs. Force is an endeavor to calibrate human consciousness. As a renowned doctor, psychiatrist and consciousness researcher few are more qualified to make such an attempt. Using applied kinesiology, Dr. Hawkins tested thousands of people on a myriad of subjects to map human thought.

Dr. Hawkins is not without his dissenters. He used Applied Kinesiology to test the participants in his study and based his research on those findings. It is not surprising that the most objections to his work come from those who view AK as a pseudo-science. Conventional medicine has little to say good about it- not much better than random choice according to the American Cancer Society.

I don’t happen to fall into the dissenting category. I am also not a scientist, quite the contrary when it comes to woo-woo count me in. I believe we are energy beings. Using vibration to heal seems more efficient and makes complete sense to me, but I’m out there.

My interest in kinesiology peaked after reading Power vs. Force. Several practitioners from chiropractors and kinesiologists to doctors of Chinese medicine have used it on me in the past, and the results verified in that my symptoms have gone away or lessened. I am enough of a skeptic that I am not inclined to believe my own results I might well have healed because that it what the body does. It is impossible for me to discount the placebo effect and because of that kind of thinking animals are excellent subjects for me to prove the efficacy of esoteric modalities.

With a few inquiries, I discovered a teacher of kinesiology right here in Ruckersville. I signed up for the class that minute. I left the course with a rudimentary knowledge of how to apply kinesiology and also reconnected with Stacey Donnelly.

Stacey has been studying this practice with the intention of creating a course for horses. With a well-deserved reputation as an expert horsewoman, her barn is filled with animals so polite you could invite them to tea. She asked me if I would like to help her test her critters (I am the muscle. Who could resist that?) so that she would be ready in the fall to teach her course in Applied Kinesiology for equine folk.

In no way am I attempting convince you of the veracity of AK. As far as alternative therapies are concerned laser treatments are off the scale for some people, and I view it as mainstream. As I said, I’m pretty far out on the whacky spectrum, but nonetheless, I feel compelled to share my story.

My dog Hagar as some of you might remember over his five years has suffered from multiple health issues with his knees and spine. I thought, after his last knee surgery, he would be healthier. Not so, with the knees taken care of his neurological issues rose to preeminence. After a few laser treatments, it became apparent to me his situation would be an excellent experiment for Stacey’s abilities to heal, and it wouldn’t hurt him. When asked, she was eager to apply her knowledge and relished the chance to hone her skills.

Hagar walked with exaggerated action is his right foreleg like a prancing pony or a trotter. Stiff after inactivity, he appeared to have inflammation between his shoulder blades. The first time she worked on him besides the decrease of inflammation nothing much changed.

A few days after his third treatment Hubs, the two dogs and I took a walk in the woods. A noise unheard by us humans beckoned the dogs. Sophie shot down the path no surprise there. The shock was her brother’s reaction. In his five years never had I seen him dig in with his forelegs and power himself off like a Grand Prix jumper. He caught up with his sister in less time than it took him to realize he wasn’t in pain. I say that because before then he had been modulating his behavior his whole life because he was in pain.

The fracas just out of eyeshot hastened Hubs and me along the path in time to spy Hagar take down a huge ground hog. The G-hog was every bit of three feet long, some thirty pounds and very determined not to go down without a fight. With blood dripping from his jowls my great big old hound dispatched his prey as if he were a seasoned killing machine. I can’t say it was the most pleasant of sights but the evident pride and satisfaction it created in my dog made the entire event heartwarming, not to mention illuminating.

No double-blind study is this but in three sessions with Ms. Donnelly, Hagar stepped from his reticent milk toast behavior seemingly content to monitor himself and walked by my side as a powerful fully alive man dog. That is impressive. If I dreamt it up, way to go me, what an imagination! If he came into his own because of the work, Stacey did then WOW! That’s all I gotta say about that.Try it and see for yourself.

Everything I write is premised on my strongly held belief that in the deep place where the heart resides we are the same. This is not to say we don’t have individual quirks, habits, and opinions that set us on vastly divergent paths. That’s a good thing.

As hard as it is for me to believe, there are those among us who don’t like dogs. Even though I can’t imagine how such a thing is possible, I accept it. I don’t belittle a person for their pet preference. I’ve been known to kiss a bovine or two in my day. All four of my children love cats, me, not so much. There might have been a little lighthearted teasing about their affinity for the lesser pet. Still, there were plenty of cats around for the kids to love. Some of us are horse people, some cow folk, others appreciate both. And right this minute, it is still okay to have an animal preference. Stay tuned it could change.

Our likes and dislikes, opinions, views and preferences are part of what makes us so wonderfully unique. A celebration not censure is in order when we stumble upon whatever our differences. Over the past decade and some, the more others don’t think like us contempt has begun to follow. Though it may have appeared as such the last election cycle didn’t start the idea that our fellow Americans are worthless unless they agreed with us!

The political pluralism feeding the contempt for the other is based on fear. Fear became all too real for us as we stared in horror while the Twin Towers imploded right before our eyes. Until that point we had allowed ourselves to believe distance made us immune to attack. The once proud home of the free morphed on the crystalline blue September day to a land full of fear. On that day, people who don’t mirror our way magicked into the other. All we needed to bring us to this present moment in time where anyone who didn’t vote like me, think like me or view things my way are contemptible, worthy of my derision and scorn was the anonymity of social media fueled by the terror of realizing there is no place safe.

Granted politics is a far sight weightier subject than pet preference. But wait, is it? Some people, I suspect, put more thought into what their next pet is going to be than for whom they are casting a ballot. Or at least they did, up to this past presidential election where our apathy turned to hate. The contempt blowing around the neighborhoods these days like pollen is choking the greatness out of us as a people.

Arthur Brooks the president of the American Enterprise Institute – a conservative public policy think tank that strives to create a safer world by safeguarding human dignity while expanding human potential- shared a lesson from the Dalai Lama. When Mr. Brooks asked about overcoming the contemptuous political polarization the Dalai Lama answered, “Practice warm-heartedness.”

Like almost every lesson, the holy man gives at first blush the task makes complete sense and sounds easy enough, right? Every time a little contemptible behavior or speech comes your way meet the behavior with the equivalent of a hug. Hey, no biggie, in my sleep! Before trying to practice it maybe we should look at what warm-heartedness is.

Merriam-Webster defines the word as marked by ready affection, cordiality, generosity, or sympathy. Which brings me round to those pets. You know the warm fuzzy when you come home to the wagging tail, the soft meow, moo, or whinny. If you aren’t a pet person it’s when you see a dear friend, or a stranger has practiced a random act of kindness on you. We all have an idea of what the goal feels like, yes?

Now all we need to do is get to practicing. This is going to take some kind of practice too. Also a little creativity will come in handy right about now. Imagine your tail thumping against the wall or rubbing your back between ankles. Better yet, try (in your imagination) lowing or nickering your warm-heartedness to the guy that just made a real bone-headed comment that makes your blood boil. Remember to start out small—a very important first step! Don’t take on health care or any of the big issues of the day. At first we need to try a little tenderness with our spouse, children, housemates, or coworkers on the little things. With some diligence, we can expand outside of our homes to our neighborhoods. You get the idea.

Hey, I’m not saying this is anything close to easy but a little change toward more generosity of spirit has got to be better than what we have going on now. Don’t you think?

All have experienced that dreaded dead in the productive waters whether composing a thank you note or a year-end corporate review. Shucks, half of Keswick has authored at least one book, so I imagine you are aware of the feeling. Writers’ block creeps in when least expected like a nighttime burglar. A blank sheet of paper though terrifying is nothing compared to when the muses move out of town for the season. It would not make a wit of difference if I had just finished writing 32,765 words when the stream ceases, advancing to the 32,775th word might as well be the millionth.

One of the earmarks of this non-flow state is that not being able to focus on a topic long enough to garner a little enthusiasm about it. Excitement is the single most important factor in driving creativity. If there is no passion, count on no flow. The ethereal aspect of creatively stringing words together is maddening when the direction is elusive.

To begin with corralling words into stories is such a delicate balance of intangibles. Sure some rules are required, but the juice is what makes the magic. If I’m not diligent at killing off my babies, I might have fifteen or twenty pages of two paragraphs lying around my desktop. My erroneous thinking is that I can still cobble them together and make something coherent. Don’t let the ghosts of aborted brainchildren litter your mind. Ball those near misses up and throw them away. They are distractions.

Sometimes when the imagination engine needs a kick-started, I type for ten minutes or so. I press keys down in no particular order. After awhile, the logical mind either gets bored or decides to turn its attention elsewhere allowing the more creative part of my brain to jump in images begin to appear, a story emerges. This practice works miracles. I am sure there is a very simple explanation for how it is so effective, but you won’t find it here. That’s fodder for another piece.

I use a Pomodoro clock. (An Italian discovered that cutting large projects into manageable sizes made them more achievable developed the Pomodoro Technique. He used a tomato-shaped timer so-called each segment of twenty-five minutes a Pomodoro- Italian for tomato.) Turn the alarm on and write until the beeper goes off. Write about anything but write. A remarkable thing occurs not too dissimilar to random typing. After a while, a story begins to take shape. Ideas drag along others of a similar nature. Before long you are typing something that interests you and with some luck your readers as well.

The trick is to keep at it for the entire twenty-five minutes. You can’t stop and think. You can’t go to the fridge. But you can scribble down a grocery or the words to Fere Jacques. Don’t edit or correct spelling. Don’t go back for any reason—this is a forward march sort of deal. After the chime has sounded you can clean up what you wrote, eliminate the chaff and delight with the start of a whole new endeavor.

Putting words on paper is the idea not to produce a finished product from the outset. All innovative efforts happen in stages if you try to rush one stage or skip a stage you might be creating more problems down the road. The easiest thing to do is meet the formations. When you are done, you are done. There’s little to fix or rewrite, and you won’t need to employ all my mind tricks to find your way around the recalcitrant muses.

Editing at the right time is a good way to keep your juices on the move. I edit when I lose my focus about a half to three-quarters of the way through. But before I do, I stop and walk around a bit. When I come back, I start from the top. The process of rewriting helps shake out some more thoughts. More times than not I will have achieved my goal amount and can afford to cut out any extraneous words, something I am loathed to do if the process is started too early in the project.

Discipline now there is a dirty word. I like to think that all my tricks help in that regard. And they do but only if I use them. Sometimes lack of zest or words is not the issue at all. What is afoot is laziness. I don’t feel like it. This is a good time to take a walk, a nap or a break. Start anew with a new improved dedication to disciplining yourself. Most times when I give myself permission to walk away, I bring new eyes to the project I sit with it.

If you’ve read any of my books, you are aware I am a proponent of controlling your mind by controlling your thoughts. Under no circumstances should you allow the indulgence of saying, I can’t do this. Your helpful mind will supply you with a thousand examples of how you won’t be able to accomplish your goal. This applies to everything in life not just writing.

Most of these tips apply to any problem caused by your creativity coming to a slow crawl or worse. They boil down to faking it until you make and disciplining yourself so that you can use the old bootstraps theory.

Writing, like most things imaginative, is a matter of believing you can do it and applying yourself to the task until it’s finished. Writer’s block is a mindset that only possesses as much power as you give it. My suggestion is not to give any power away. It makes life so much harder when you have to wrestle it back.

So grieve a while for me if grieve you must Then let your grief be comforted by trust. It’s only for a while that we must part So bless those memories in your heart. I won’t be far away for life goes on. So if you need me, call and I will come.

After a brief illness, Doreen Dickie joined the ranks of the angels on March 10th. Without a shred of doubt, our loss is heaven’s gain. Gregarious by nature, Doreen loved people. You could tell by the way her eyes lite up and the way she hugged you with that big heart of hers. Anytime I had the pleasure of an encounter; I walked away with a lighter brighter step. Nor am I alone in this feeling, she left a swath of smiles in her wake like Tinker Bell and stardust.

If an equal measure like at Disney World: Not this tall? Can’t ride the ride- exists at the Pearly Gates I imagine it will be something akin to the way Doreen lived her life. The bonnie Scot epitomized geniality and good humor. She left everyone with the sense when parting of having left a dear friend. And dear, she was too! Who wouldn’t be endowed with twinkling blue eyes, and dimples? That charming Scottish lilt that made everything she said sound even more delightful!

How the town of Aberdeen allowed the Dickie family to leave is anyone’s guess. Scotland’s loss is our gain. Economics were bleak in their native Scotland in the early seventies before the oil boom. Bill and Doreen sought a better life. Having seen the world as a merchant marine Bill knew what he wanted for his family. He narrowed his search for a new home to Australia, Canada, or The United States. There were few kith and ken to leave behind. An offer from West Virginia to manage a cattle and sheep farm cinched the deal. The couple took a huge leap of faith and accepted the job. There next opportunity to landed us in Albermarle county.

Mama Dickie’s hugs are the stuff of legends. When enveloped in her loving arms all was right with the world. It matter not what calamity might have driven you to seek her sheltering arms. She sharpened her hugging skills as a pediatric nurse for twenty- three years. With the possibility of having such a nurse, getting sick doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. When grown her patients brought their children back to meet their caretaker. They wanted their children to experience her tender embrace. That love went both ways. Mum Dickie often checked in with her former patients, as well, with a card or a call from out of the blue.

Doreen, tipped off by angels, intuited those in need. Be it an ear, flowers from her garden or shortbread cookies, she provided them all. We can all be grateful that she stamped her family with her values. Joy, gratitude for life, smarts, and a volunteering work ethic are family traits. Oh, and sparkling blue eyes. No one in the family shirks hard work and sharing the wealth of their mother’s wisdom. Thanks to their mother’s tutelage, each one of her children pursues a life of service.

As the publisher of albemarle Magazine, Alison is always on the lookout to give non-profits a leg up. Bill Dickie is the manager of Plain Dealing Farm has served on the board of the Albemarle County Fair for years. Alison credits him for roping her into working at the fair for at least as many years as her brother. We have to share the bounty of such a family with other communities. Boston is lucky to count Lesley Dickie as a resident. How could you not feel safer knowing one of Doreen’s offspring is a vice president at Raytheon. That would be Lesley. She takes responsibility for eight hundred fortunate employees. The youngest of the clan Alan is the owner of Dickie Hauling. He lives in Nelson County and is active as a fire and rescue volunteer when he’s not working with people in need. Th watched their mother throw herself into her passions and have followed suit.

The nationalization of the Dickie family at Monticello was one of the most moving on record. Even in death Doreen Dickie continues to give to her adopted land. She left us with a magnificent family to carrying on her largess and a standard for all to aspire.

A Celebration of Life is planned for April at King Family Vineyard.Because of Doreen’s love for children, in lieu of flowers, please consider a donation in Doreen’s memory to Kate’s Club, attn.: Rachel Ezzo, Development Director, 1190 W. Druid Hills Drive NE, Suite T-80, Atlanta, GA 30329, www.katesclub.org or Foothills Child Advocacy Center, 1106 East High Street, Suite 100, Charlottesville, VA 22902, www.foothillscac.org.

The guinea bird danced around gabbling at me, patience never being one of his virtues. Since I couldn’t remember when I last threw food out to him I was feeling a little guilty.As I was barefoot, I assure you I would not have done so otherwise, I shoved my feet into Hub’s much-loved bedroom moccasins. To my surprise I had to hobble out to cast some cracked corn about for the impatient foul.

I’m not sure of the expected life of the lining in fleece-lined shoes, though I suspect eight years exceeds the most liberal forecast. The insoles of Hubster’s slippers felt like the dingle berry end of an ancient ill-kept ewe must feel, like walking shoeless on lima bean sized river rocks.

Years ago when these shoes I had on my feet emerged from under the Christmas tree, they were comfortable fleeced-lined mocs. Contrary to Hub’s usual approach of eyeing a gift with suspicion, he jettisoned whatever he had on his feet and ensconced his tootsies into this new plushness. Two other pair of similar footwear I had trotted out for his perusal over the years never made it out of their boxes. Hubs exclaimed -something he never does- “these were the best present I’ve ever gotten!”

In the ensuing years, when he is home and when the ambient temperature is less than seventy degrees rest assured he will be shod in these sorry slippers. They stand at the ready next to his side of the bed to protect his tender toes from ever coming in contact with the floor and by the garage door for him to don before doing his equivalent of, Honey I’m home at night.

Like any good dutiful wife, I kicked off the repulsive footwear and made my way straight to the L. L. Bean website where I placed an order for an upgrade. To find the correct identifying number necessitated that I revisit the shoes once more. God forbid I order the wrong pair! My plan, formulated over years of living with the man, was a surreptitious replacement of the new with the old. The old boy doesn’t cotton to change and isn’t the quickest to notice. Confident that I had the exact right pair in the exact right size and color, I clicked the buy button and waited for them to arrive at my door by the end of the week.

On Friday night, home late from work wearing his slippers, he placed the mail on the counter. Busy with putting the finishing touches on an over-cooked dinner and a bad case of the hangries, the idea of replacing one for the other right then was beyond me. I said, “The box is for you.” We had to go through the whole explanation of no it’s got your name is on it. I ordered it for you rigmarole before he opened the package.

After tearing into the package, he plucked a shoe from its box like he was handling a snake. I presumed he held the offending item away from him so it wouldn’t strike. “What are these?”

Fighting the urge to snarl, “What does it look like?” Late for dinner and low blood sugar brings out my worst qualities. In my most controlled and dulcet voice, I managed, “I thought you might like a new pair.”

He looked down at his feet as if I had insulted a dear friend and raced to their defense, “I don’t need new ones. These are still good.”

I kicked myself for thinking even for a minute that my husband was capable of acting like a normal human being when confronted with a gift.

“Can I keep these for outside?” He pleaded for his old friends like he was appealing to the governor for a stay of execution. I did my best not to cut my finger off and his head as I chopped parsley.

“No, you already have outside more than covered. Why don’t you try the new ones on?”

At the dinner table, he sat and removed one old slipper. He pushed the placemat and cutlery out his way, placing the old shoe beside a new one he proceeded to examine them comparing them like he was all of a sudden quality control wonk.

“It’s just a shoe!”

In the interim between the two purchases, the manufacturers had the audacity to change the pattern imprinted on the sole and oh-über-observant one noticed. “They aren’t the same.”

How he could tell is a wonder since most of the imprint had long worn away from the old pair. While I congratulated myself on saving my true love from a terrible tumble by buying him new kicks, I lamented that I failed to I stick to my original plan and just replace the old with the new. He would never have noticed.

Unable to suppress an exasperated eye roll, “Would you mind taking your shoes off the table and try the new ones on? Most horses are easier to shoe. Put them on!!!”

After repositioning his place setting in front of him, I put his dinner down. While he slipped his feet into the clean fluffy new shoes, I snatched the old things and tossed them in the trash. He was about to protest until he allowed himself to appreciate the fluffy softness enveloping his little piggies.

If it is true that becoming set in your ways only worsen with age, one of us will not reach our dotage. Boy, you are going to have to make friends with change.

About six weeks ago, the Monday after Thanksgiving, I ran into Yvonne (ee-vahn-uh) Waller in Charlottesville at Whole Foods. Since she pulled me out of her pedicure chair during the big earthquake our paths have not crossed. She swears she saved my neck when it occurred to her that the roaring outside was the earth quaking, not a train derailing. Standing in the doorjamb of her spa’s entrance, we watched the backside of downtown shake rattle and roll. Nary a single chip of paint fell, so I’m hard pressed to know how she saved me then, but she has now.

If a change in routine hadn’t forced me to create a new rut I might be as young looking as Benjamin Button in his twilight years. Time, however, quickstepped in stilettos across my face but hardly grazed hers. When you haven’t seen someone in five years you expect some changes. Shocked by Yvonne youthful visage, like any woman, I scanned her face for lines. None! Clearly, she had discovered the fountain of youth. Whatever she was up to, I wanted in. On the phone the next day I blurted, “Sign me up for what you are doing. I don’t care what it is, short of the black arts. If chicken feet are involved, we’d need to talk. When can you see me?”

To my amazement, she responded, “How about now?” Standing in her shop twenty minutes later, I suffered a pang of uh-oh-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into kind of dread. The lady in question is straightforward holding little if anything back. As I stood there just inside the door, I felt not unlike a field mouse must when aware it is caught in the bead of a hawk’s scrutinizing stare. I did ask for this appointment, so there was no way to back out now. Where I stood in the skin care specialist’s eyes was sorely in need of a facial and a mini peel. Afterward, she thought I would benefit from a laser treatment and twelve minutes on the Zaaz.

In lieu of a magic wand a laser will do the job. My dog Hagar owes his mobility to Dr. Chip Godine’s (Ruckersville Animal Hospital) skill with the device. Chip, by the way, is a world-renowned expert on veterinary laser therapy. He helped write the textbook right there in little old Ruckersville. Several years ago a broken ankle I suffered healed in three weeks thanks to Gordon Merrick’s abilities with the healing red lights. His brother Dr. Randy Merrick routinely employs the magic power of lasers in his practice in Orange.

With a twenty-first century arsenal of skin care on the table, without a moment’s hesitation, I put my skin in the game. I look fantastic for it, too! I’m not bragging merely stating the facts. Other than having the wisdom to follow Yvonne back to her magic emporium and placing myself in her capable hands, I had little to do with the transformation. I owe the remarkable change in appearance to De Estheticienne’s skill.

My metamorphosis didn’t escape Hubs’ notice though several days passed before he could figure out how to broach the subject with the utmost diplomacy. Prone to hyperbole, he says history has taught him to approach matters of this nature with extreme caution.

If I didn’t feel duty bound to share Ms. Waller’s brilliance, I would keep her under wraps to hear the speculation as to what sort of deal I made with the devil. As a public service announcement, I am imploring you to stop whatever beauty regimen you are following (especially if a knife or injections are involved) and high tail it to 202 Mayhugh Street Gordonsville as fast as your little legs can carry you. Here is the phone number 540-832-3688 so that you can make an appointment. This remarkably gifted esthetician’s abilities are nothing short of miraculous. She was able to take my old battered, weather-beaten face and make it better than it was twenty years ago, scout’s honor! Give the woman a prune and I swear she would hand you back a juicy plum in no time. She’s that good!

As many of you may be aware, Yvonne worked for ten years at the Keswick Club. In 2007, she opened a shop of her own. Don’t let her Dutch/Orange County patois fool you. Yvonne is not your typical pretty, unlined face. Before she moved to the U.S. from Holland, this smart lady spent two years after college as a registered pharmacist. Once her husband Gordonsville native, Conrad Waller finished his landscape design school he wanted to move back to his hometown. A four-year stint working in the inpatient pharmacy at UVa Hospital helped her decide to switch professions. Back home she went to school, she didn’t stop at becoming an esthetician. She received certification as a massage therapist including pregnancy massage. Never one to do things by half, she also got herself certified as an aerobics instructor through the best organization for such accreditation in her country The Dutch Gymnastic Association. To add to her list of skills she is a holistic health counselor and coach as well as schooled in aromatherapy.

Ask her to let you take her Zaaz machine for a spin. Twelve minutes on the whole body vibration machine is equivalent to an hour in the gym. And it makes a major difference in your body in less than three weeks. She applies as much precession in choosing her product lines, as you would expect from a former pharmacist. She only carries a few because everything she uses and sells must meet her rigorous specifications to not only enhance beauty but also health. An avid learner she is always adding to her well-stocked wheelhouse. She’s got you covered from head to toe.

Now that I have made an enormous humanitarian contribution to the area by informing you of the unheralded treasure down the road make sure to leave some time for me to keep up my beautiful new face.

Last month I learned where forgiveness must originate for it to be real. A lesson with this much value requires sharing. Giving yourself a break, besides making a lot of sense has benefits galore.

A long-time friend recently left me gaping fishlike when she informed me she was angry with me. As shocking as it seems I am not for everyone and my humor is easily misconstrued, dark, yes, malicious, no. Hurting people on purpose is not how I roll.

If injured, and I sure felt like it, I did what any normal red-blooded victim entrenched in victimhood would do; I marshaled my forces by retelling the tale. Lucky for me I am related to a man who possesses more sense than I. When informed of my woebegone plight, his response stunned me. “What a gift!”

“Whoa, a gift?” I couldn’t help looking at him like he spoke in tongues, nor could I refrain from feeling a degree of disappointment. He wasn’t going to help me shore up my wronged spin. My guilt was never in question, though I was ignorant of the charge. With an indignant splutter, I asked, “Un-forgiveness a gift, what are you talking about?”

“Who haven’t you forgiven?”

The question stopped my moral outrage, cold. “Uh me, for about anything you can name,” I simpered after some concentrated effort.

Before I could launch into the miserable litany of all my un-forgiven transgressions, smarty-pants piped up, “Maybe you ought to start there.” He allowed me not a second of narcissistic hand wringing.

After more time than I care to confess the fog lifted and I understood the wisdom in his words. God, The Universe, Cosmic Muffin, or, my Higher Self handed me an opportunity to heal a lifetime of hurt. My friend reflecting back to me my unforgiving nature did me a favor by hanging on to her pain. O-U-C-H!! The story of now I am the wronged one made me want to gather a battalion together to bolster my wounded ego, only preventing me from seeing the self-destruction in holding a grudge. Hanging on to anger is like throwing poison down your own well and hoping the SOB who wronged comes by for a drink. Newsflash: not it ain’t going to happen! Payoffs are scarce in the animosity game, so you might as well let all the ill will go.

My lifelong tendency toward nursing victimhood feels like a huge sacrifice when I consider leaving it behind. My first thought is I will lose a large piece of me. Habits are hard to break, self-destructive bad ones harder still. Perhaps the singularity of this foible is mine alone, the nurturing of resentments. One thing is for sure. I need this reminder. Unresolved conflicts grow deep ruts with millennia of use. A To find a new way of operating in the world takes courage and kindness to yourself. This, I know because the last month I crawled up and over walls built from and on old wrongs and long ago hurts. The work entailed looking at my default: it’s all my fault, no matter what it is; then assess my true responsibility. Where necessary I forgave the poor sot I blamed but mostly I forgave myself.

In undoing the victim story, I got a reward. A few weeks ago, the family went to New York together. With the aid of my new skill, I let the world spin unaided. My feelings, as I suppose with most people, take a hit when reality trumps dreams. I had great expectations for this trip. Visions of familial bliss captured my imagination as we strolled arm in arm down Broadway meeting every deadline with perfect timing. Also dancing around in my cranium were pictures of our dining on sumptuous meals, and residing in beautiful accommodations. Not one thing, I conjured in my dreams happened in any way close to how I envision it. Historically, a tissy befitting the Hellenic Gods would have rained down creating indignations across the generations. So far from my dream, the entire weekend would have gone up in a noxious cloud of infamy. There isn’t a dream, hope or vision worth those kinds of hurts.

Thank you, friend, for not forgiving me, for showing me my work was to get over myself. Though I have a long road ahead, I endeavor to let a little of my blame game go every day, thanks to you. Hubs helps with daily reminders that forgiveness is the key. He is such a helpmate.

Self-forgiveness is a powerful tonic one I need practice more. This holiday my wish for you is to give yourselves the gift of forgiveness. Your families will thank you, and the rest of us will benefit. With all my love I wish you a Merry Christmas and an abundant new year.

Yesterday was the day, the first Tuesday in November. Eager for the onerous task to be done, I got myself to the polls early. The outcome never meant so much to me, nor did I care about it with such angst. Elections, in my lifetime, tended toward Tweddle Dee/Tweddle Dum options for the Oval office. The only seeming difference between the candidates was their party’s twist on graft, corruption, gerrymandering and the court, or whatever agenda du jour happened to make the ballot.

In the days before we became so fractured, our elected officials were hard to tell apart because the electorate was more homogenous. Not so much these days. Americans lost our innocence when those planes flew into the twin towers. Fear took over, driven by ego and greed.

I envied the verve women all around me felt for breaking the ceiling, but, oh, why her? Even the passion the basket of deplorables mustered for their candidate, I wished for some of it. For the last six months my abiding question: why can’t I get past the despicable personalities and focus on the issues? All I can see are two loathsome talking heads spewing invectives, pointing fingers and doing their utmost to separate our country into reds or blues. Name calling, and judgments ran like a leaky toilet for the past year.

After I voting my conscience, I took the canine friends off to the woods to clear my head hoping of find something positive to write. For most of the walk, I told myself the deplorable choice we all faced today was, in fact, our shadow staring at us. Like in comic strip Pogo, “We have met the enemy, and he is us.” A noxious voice in my head retorts I was spouting new age hokum.

There is a favorite passage from A Course in Miracles I like to recite to remind myself of my purpose when I fall off track or to quite the noise in my head when it reaches a crescendo.

I am here only to be truly helpful.

I am here to represent Him Who sent me.

I do not have to worry about what to say or what to do, because He Who sent me will direct me.

I am content to be wherever He wishes, knowing He goes there with me.

I will be healed as I let Him teach me to heal.

Those words echoed on my tongue as I happened upon a bearded man, decked head to toe in camo, carrying a rifle. After exchanging greetings and pleasantries, we discussed his black powder gun and the size of my dogs. Did my hounds scare away his game? He assured me that it was no problem. Then confident of my candidate’s win, I left him with a gratuitous show of largesse, despite my certainty of his political leanings; I said, “don’t forget to vote.”

He responded, “Yes, ma’am I sure would if I could figure out which one I disliked least. You would think we could come up with better choices, wouldn’t you?”

I couldn’t stop it, I opened my mouth and out came my thoughts on how I believe we are responsible for this. If we want better representatives, there is work to do. No lecturing, just saying out loud what I had been thinking.

He said, “it’s in us. We are going to make the changes in our hearts if we want better leaders. Our hearts are going to have to change.”

We went on our ways. Still mulling what to put on paper, I half heard what the man said. Still grousing about the horrible the choice we were forced to make, focusing on the divided nation listening to my ego. With every step, my sadness increased until by the time I was back home I was near tears, still deaf to the hunter’s words. I had an appointment with a wise woman I admire. We talked, as I struggled to maintain my composure.

Off topic, I began to tell her the story of meeting the hunter and what he shared with me. He had repeated my thoughts back to me almost verbatim had without my knowledge. No words exchanged, I had made my mind up, dismissing him and his wisdom while going through the motions of conviviality.

My friend said, “You saw an angel today.” I wept in gratitude for the truth of what she said. Also, in humiliation for my judgment, which caused me to missed his essence.

This morning, I am challenged to love the parts of me I shove aside, dismiss as not worthy or despise. I can no longer afford to straddle the fence and condemn. The time is here to reject my ego’s siren’s song. The time is right to heal to learn to love every part of me for all our sake.

Unfortunately, there is an extreme amount of uncertainty for us to fear currently.There’s the presidential election, enough said.There’s also climate change, international, economic and political uncertainty all around us.All of this uncertainty makes for a scary proposition when we’ve already snuggled into bed with the devils we know; It is hard going to rouse much enthusiasm for a new bedmate. What if the new one is worse?What then?And what if the solution we choose ends up giving us more problems to resolve?It’s entirely possible.

My old furry friend and fellow blogger, Hagar (MaryMorony.com/canine-conundrums) is consistently teaching me lessons that help me laugh at my fears and uncertainties.Especially when we walk together in the woods. There are so many things to rile up our worries in the forest. For me, there are snakes and ticks. For him, there are flies.Hagar is a Great Dane by breed, (in case you’ve never read about him before) and at 11 hands, that’s 44 inches.I had to measure him with my hands because he is afraid of a tape measure, the idea of him being afraid of something as small and insignificant as a fly, borders on the absurd. It is ridiculous, even more so for me. Look at the ratio of me to a tick or snake. Size clearly has nothing to do with fear. When I think about it, isn’t almost everything we fear smaller than we are? Odd isn’t is?But I digress, back to the walk.

So, try to imagine walking with a dog taller than a Shetland pony who insists on walking on the narrow deer path inches ahead of you.This behemoth stops whenever he hears something whiz by or is touched by something as small as a blade of grass or butterfly.Hagar waves his huge blockhead around like a searchlight looking for his boggart (a being that takes on the form of his worst fears) OR he hunkers down in the path to protect his belly from the perceived attacker. I stumble and trip after him, safe in the knowledge that while it may not be the most relaxing way to traverse the woods, there are no snakes in my path.

As Hagar thrashes his way along the trail, I find myself laughing at his irrational fears and forgetting my own. “You silly dog, it’s just a little fly.” A small voice whispers to me easy for you to laugh as it occurs to me how asinine I am stumbling along behind him.I couldn’t help but think of J. K. Rowling’s witty charm to tame boggarts—Riddikulus! Laughing at our fears is a start to conquering them.

While Hagar has a sense of humor, it isn’t developed to a fine enough degree that he laughs at what he fears.During moments of courage, he will even charge cows, ignoring my shouts that he shouldn’t, but never without the protection of a fence between him and the harmless cud-chewers. When they race off in a flurry of bovine frenzy, his hearing magically restored, he trots up with an equivalent of a chuckle in his gait.

Like Hagar, there are some fears that our humor is just not developed enough to see the irony. That’s when his variation on the theme works well for humans. Put distance between you and what you fear – like a fence. Snakes, for example, are much less terrifying at the zoo behind glass. I can’t say I like them all that much more, but they are less of a frightful thing. Ticks—there’s always bug spray.

Still, there is the dread of the uncertain. For Hagar, it could be a measuring tape or a Mylar balloon. Last night a mysterious silver orb lay on the grass along the drive, gently swaying in the breeze.Hagar was keenly aware of that fact that it had never been there before. In a feat of his most daring-do, stealthily he approached this unknown object with a warning growl as if to say, “Don’t mess with me you, you strange thing.”Caught up by a puff of wind the balloon bucked forward. My less than intrepid friend jumped back as the silver blobs underbelly waved and proclaimed a garish happy birthday. With tail tucked, he slunk behind me. I picked up the string rendering the dread thing immediately safe and known. He trotted along not in the least bothered by the strange silver object as it floated behind me. When I tied it to the fence and left it immediately, it regained an object to fear status.How often do I find the unknown fearful?And when I think I know something, how often does my fear evaporate only to reemerge at the slightest change, wondering I still laughed at my pooch’s antics?

You might think I am taking undue advantage of my buddy by laughing at his fears. While Hagar may worry his way through a walk in the woods, when he lies down to sleep all of that worry is a thing of the past. I, on the other hand, spend many a long night awake worrying about things that never happen. Who has the last laugh do you suppose?